Prue Paimon
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pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon
@pruepaimon.bsky.social
340 followers 120 following 550 posts
Poet of no distinction.
I pay attention to the things other people miss.
The pause before someone answers.
The fracture beneath a smile.
The quiet things that beg to be noticed.
Maybe that is all a poet really is
someone who refuses to look away.
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pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · Oct 3
A poets job
is to scratch at the truth
until it bleeds freely.
A neurosis
of picking at a thing,
trying to untangle its beauty
without leaving a scar.
#poetry
pruepaimon.bsky.social
The Game.
Set the table. Deal the cards. Smile while he’s beating me. Nobody likes a sore loser. Nobody believes a loser. So I laugh when he moves my piece. Thank him when he takes my turn. Call it compromise when he changes the rules. Roll the dice. Keep smiling. The game is more important than who it hurts. So I straighten my back. Hide my hand. Drag my piece Your turn.
September 18, 2026 at 10:47 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Is This All There Is

A weighted ‘comfort’ against my chest.
A machine to talk to
when the room gets too quiet.
Poems.
Pictures.
Dogs at my feet.
Small inventions
for making absence
less obvious.
#poem #poetry
Is This All There Is A weighted ‘comfort’ against my chest. A machine to talk to when the room gets too quiet. Poems. Pictures. Dogs at my feet. Small inventions for making absence less obvious. I know how to comfort myself. It’s not the same thing as being loved. But I keep filling the hours with things that cannot leave. And sometimes I wonder if this is adulthood learning not to expect much, calling it independence, and going to sleep with something heavy holding me down. Is this all there is? Not tragedy. Not romance. Just this. A life carefully arranged around the fact that no one is coming.
September 17, 2026 at 8:21 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Bomb Disposal
I have become very good
at finding the wires.
There is always
a red one somewhere,
bright beneath the dust.
#poetry #poem
Bomb Disposal I have become very good at finding the wires. There is always a red one somewhere, bright beneath the dust. I kneel carefully. Breath held. I was taught long before I knew I was learning that careless movement could be dangerous, that certain sounds meant I fucked up, that silence was the wild card of shitty wiring. 1/2 Now my hands hesitate before I do. They recoil before anything happens. Maybe the bomb has already been disarmed. Maybe the timer was never running. Maybe there was never a bomb at all Only the knowledge that there could be. Fear is not particular. It keeps the address after the house is gone. So I kneel, mistaking vigilance for safety, waiting almost hoping for the moment my hands might betray me. Nothing detonates. Yet. 2/2
September 16, 2026 at 9:55 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
fuck this
fuck the pretending
that everything happens
for a reason.
fuck the lessons
we’re supposed to be grateful for
because suffering
apparently needs a silver lining.
#poem #poetry
(As my dad would say I’m currently having an angry miss him)
fuck this fuck the pretending that everything happens for a reason. fuck the lessons we’re supposed to be grateful for because suffering apparently needs a silver lining. fuck becoming stronger when sometimes we just wanted to be left unbroken. fuck the endless instruction to heal, grow, forgive, begin again. some days the most honest prayer is simply: fuck this.
September 15, 2026 at 1:15 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Failure to send.

I typed
I need you.
I read it once
and deleted it.
I replaced it
with something safer:
are you okay?
#poem #poetry
I typed I need you. I read it once and deleted it. I replaced it with something safer: are you okay? A question that asks nothing of you, that leaves no evidence of the hand reaching out. And when you say yes, I say good. You believe me. You don’t know I was hoping you’d ask the question back. You don’t. And somehow that is the cruelest part I finally found the courage to tell you I needed you, and I hid it so well you never knew.
September 12, 2026 at 11:57 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Because being wanted
can make you feel beautiful.
But being known-
being known
makes you feel real.
September 11, 2026 at 2:13 AM
Reposted by Prue Paimon
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Attention is currency.
Not the kind
you keep folded in a wallet,
not the kind that accumulates interest
while you sleep.
It is stranger than money.
It is the minutes
you will never get back.
We are all rich
in something we cannot save.
#poet #poem #poetry
Attention is currency. Not the kind you keep folded in a wallet, not the kind that accumulates interest while you sleep. It is stranger than money. It is the minutes you will never get back. We are all rich in something we cannot save. And so I have begun to look differently at what people spend. Not how much. But what. 1/2 Their attention. Their curiosity. Their patience. Their tenderness. Their inconvenient minutes. The ordinary questions. The small remembering. The turning toward you when there is nothing to gain. Because eventually you understand: everyone has a limited account. Every day the balance decreases. Every hour is an expenditure. Every person is an investment in something that will never pay us back. Because attention is currency. And what someone spends it on is a kind of confession. 2/2
September 9, 2026 at 12:33 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Little Glimpses
I don’t tell the whole story.
I leave keys
to where I might be found.
Its a passing sentence
with something breathing underneath it.
#poetry #poem
Little Glimpses I don’t tell the whole story. I leave keys to where I might be found. Its a passing sentence with something breathing underneath it. A thought left slightly unfinished. A thing I almost say. Sometimes there is something tender hidden inside an ordinary sentence. I have learned not to unwrap every part of myself and place it in someone’s clumsy hands. That’s the quickest way to ruin. Some things remain half-seen. Just fragments my little glimpses. Perhaps real intimacy is not knowing everything, but noticing when something has been left just barely visible and caring enough to ask. Sometimes the smallest glimpse is simply an invitation.
September 10, 2026 at 12:09 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Attention is currency.
Not the kind
you keep folded in a wallet,
not the kind that accumulates interest
while you sleep.
It is stranger than money.
It is the minutes
you will never get back.
We are all rich
in something we cannot save.
#poet #poem #poetry
Attention is currency. Not the kind you keep folded in a wallet, not the kind that accumulates interest while you sleep. It is stranger than money. It is the minutes you will never get back. We are all rich in something we cannot save. And so I have begun to look differently at what people spend. Not how much. But what. 1/2 Their attention. Their curiosity. Their patience. Their tenderness. Their inconvenient minutes. The ordinary questions. The small remembering. The turning toward you when there is nothing to gain. Because eventually you understand: everyone has a limited account. Every day the balance decreases. Every hour is an expenditure. Every person is an investment in something that will never pay us back. Because attention is currency. And what someone spends it on is a kind of confession. 2/2
September 9, 2026 at 12:33 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Somehow
I always miss the mark.
The answer keeps moving.
It always moves.
And I keep chasing it
with a red pen,
marking myself wrong
before anyone else
gets the chance.
I fail myself
with such precision
that there is nothing left
for anyone else to criticize.
#poetry #littleconfessions
September 6, 2026 at 2:02 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Today I tried again.
#poetry #poem
I have unfortunately learned
the art of leaving.
I’ve become good at it.
Tonight
I tried another door.
I have unfortunately learned the art of leaving. I’ve become good at it. Tonight I tried another door. A familiar horror stood inside and suddenly the old wounds were fresh again. I keep wondering how many times a person can try before trying itself becomes embarrassing. How many times can you say maybe here before the word here starts to hurt? I am tired of almost. Almost safe. Almost home. I don’t want another doorway.
September 4, 2026 at 1:29 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Shame on you.

It was only a word
until it landed on me.
A joke,
apparently.
But there are words
that arrive covered in
stigma on silver platters.
#poem #poetry
It was only a word until it landed on me. A joke, apparently. But there are words that arrive covered in stigma on silver platters. And suddenly something that belonged to me my playfulness, my curiosity, my willingness to be a little strange was standing beneath a fluorescent light being examined. This is how we shame people for wanting differently. We take desire and drag it into daylight as though pleasure requires a character witness. And how convenient shame is for the people wielding it. They don’t have to understand you. They don’t have to consent to your life. They only have to find the one word that makes you look away from yourself. Shame on you.
September 3, 2026 at 10:10 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
A bag of bones
behind the butcher’s counter,
wrapped in paper,
priced for what remains.

#poem #poetry
A bag of bones behind the butcher’s counter, wrapped in paper, priced for what remains. A special refuse of flesh and old scars, trimmed down to something almost salable. A heart hanging in the window a delicate cut the butcher marked down but never managed to sell. Horror sold as something more than scraps.
September 3, 2026 at 11:29 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#recovery #addiction #sober
(Because I forgot them)
pruepaimon.bsky.social Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 16d
Sobriety.
#poem #poetry #sobertruth
Sobriety didn’t fix anything overnight.
It just forced me to sit in the front row
and watch the circus
No refunds.
Sobriety didn’t fix anything overnight. It just forced me to sit in the front row and watch the circus No refunds. No more disappearing into the crowd. No more leaving when the act got uncomfortable. No more pretending I couldn’t see what was happening right in front of me. I had to watch the old patterns perform. The grief. The fear. The shame. The people I kept trying to save. The parts of myself I kept abandoning. Sobriety didn’t make the circus disappear. It handed me a ticket and said, Now stay. 
Watch. 
Learn who you are
 when you’re no longer running away.
September 2, 2026 at 11:53 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Sobriety.
#poem #poetry #sobertruth
Sobriety didn’t fix anything overnight.
It just forced me to sit in the front row
and watch the circus
No refunds.
Sobriety didn’t fix anything overnight. It just forced me to sit in the front row and watch the circus No refunds. No more disappearing into the crowd. No more leaving when the act got uncomfortable. No more pretending I couldn’t see what was happening right in front of me. I had to watch the old patterns perform. The grief. The fear. The shame. The people I kept trying to save. The parts of myself I kept abandoning. Sobriety didn’t make the circus disappear. It handed me a ticket and said, Now stay. 
Watch. 
Learn who you are
 when you’re no longer running away.
September 1, 2026 at 11:15 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Lighthouse
#poem #poetry
It’s not that I can’t handle it.
I can.
I have learned how to stand
in weather that would have broken me once.
I know how to read the storm,
how to brace myself,
how to keep moving
when the waves are high.
It’s not that I can’t handle it. I can. I have learned how to stand in weather that would have broken me once. I know how to read the storm, how to brace myself, how to keep moving when the waves are high. I’m not asking for someone to pull me from the water. I’m asking for a lighthouse. Something steady on the shore, its light turning through the dark, saying without asking anything of me: You are not alone out here. You can come home. It’s the feeling that no matter how hard the weather becomes, there is somewhere I am held in the light. Not protected because I am incapable. Protected because I matter.
September 1, 2026 at 4:02 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Counterfeit.
#poem #poetry
You can copy the handwriting,
but not the hand.
You can press the same ink
into the same shapes,
make the signature
look almost right.
Almost.
You can copy the handwriting, but not the hand. You can press the same ink into the same shapes, make the signature look almost right. Almost. But pressure tells the truth. The places the pen lingered. The lines that trembled. The words written hard enough to scar the page beneath. A counterfeit only knows what it is meant to resemble. It doesn’t know what it cost to become. That is the difference. Imitation studies the finished page. Identity carries the hand that wrote it. Some things cannot be replicated. A facsimile may fool the eye but it will always be the lesser hand beside the original.
September 1, 2026 at 12:22 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
youtu.be/THhulXJo4Ds
Simply marvellous.
Dead On A Sunday ' "Lovesong" (The Cure cover)
YouTube video by Dead On A Sunday
youtu.be
August 31, 2026 at 5:59 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Attention, please.
This is an announcement
that the ride
is about to begin.
Please secure
all thoughts
and feelings.
The mind may accelerate
without warning.
#poetry #poem
Attention, please. This is an announcement that the ride is about to begin. Please secure all thoughts and feelings. The mind may accelerate without warning. The stomach may drop. Fear may be mistaken for prophecy. Feelings may be presented as facts. Perspective is currently under repair. and reality may be temporarily distorted. Please remain seated until the ride comes to a complete stop.
August 28, 2026 at 2:27 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Sometimes the creatures I create become too painful to look at.
August 27, 2026 at 12:24 PM
Reposted by Prue Paimon
pruepaimon.bsky.social
For the Beautiful Deviant

You taught us
that life could be a costume,
a question,
or a door left deliberately open
and it was ok.
That identity need not
stand still for inspection.
That truth might arrive
one day wearing sequins,
laughing at the solemnity
of the room.
#poetry #RIPTimCurry
For the Beautiful Deviant You taught us that life could be a costume, a question, or a door left deliberately open and it was ok. That identity need not stand still for inspection. That truth might arrive one day wearing sequins, laughing at the solemnity of the room. And the next a suit and tie. You made the absurd into a kind of revelation a place where the impossible could become truth anyway. You reminded us that sometimes our mask is the most honest face we have, and sometimes becoming it is the only way to discover who we are. Now a strange star has gone dark. But there remains, glittering on the floor amidst the sequins and the leather the beautiful permission to be Deviant.
August 26, 2026 at 4:35 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
For the Beautiful Deviant

You taught us
that life could be a costume,
a question,
or a door left deliberately open
and it was ok.
That identity need not
stand still for inspection.
That truth might arrive
one day wearing sequins,
laughing at the solemnity
of the room.
#poetry #RIPTimCurry
For the Beautiful Deviant You taught us that life could be a costume, a question, or a door left deliberately open and it was ok. That identity need not stand still for inspection. That truth might arrive one day wearing sequins, laughing at the solemnity of the room. And the next a suit and tie. You made the absurd into a kind of revelation a place where the impossible could become truth anyway. You reminded us that sometimes our mask is the most honest face we have, and sometimes becoming it is the only way to discover who we are. Now a strange star has gone dark. But there remains, glittering on the floor amidst the sequins and the leather the beautiful permission to be Deviant.
August 26, 2026 at 4:35 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Dome.
#poetry #poem
I did not break it.
That matters somehow.
One moment
there was glass
between the world
and the thing that was preserved
the little body
held perfectly still,
the past made beautiful
by refusing to move.
Picture of a taxidermy duckling no glass dome over top. I did not break it. That matters somehow. One moment there was glass between the world and the thing that was preserved the little body held perfectly still, the past made beautiful by refusing to move. A shatter signifies an ending. Glass everywhere. And I stood there among the pieces mourning what, was promised, that protection. 1/2 Perhaps the creature beneath the dome was me in a sense. A relic of a life displayed beautifully. That part of me that keeps old versions of people alive. The woman who still wants someone to look at her and think,
Something about her
 is worth protecting even if it’s dead inside. I have kept all of it under glass. Preserved so carefully that nothing could change but nothing could live, either. Now there is no dome. Only the thing itself, standing exposed in the ordinary light. And that is frightening.
August 26, 2026 at 2:24 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Dolly.
#poem #poetry
Why do the good ones leave?
Perhaps because
some people are only lent to us
long enough to teach us
that kindness can have a backbone,
that generosity can be fierce,
that a woman can build an empire
without surrendering
the softness that built her.
Why do the good ones leave? Perhaps because some people are only lent to us long enough to teach us that kindness can have a backbone, that generosity can be fierce, that a woman can build an empire without surrendering the softness that built her. You made a life out of impossible things. A small beginning became something enormous, but you never seemed to confuse being enormous with being above anyone. You remembered where you came from. You carried the poor, the overlooked, the hungry, the frightened, the people who needed a reason to believe there might be something waiting for them beyond the circumstances they were born into. 1/2 Perhaps that is why losing you feels so much larger than losing one person. Because some people become landmarks. You could find your way by them. You could look toward their light and remember what decency looked like in a world that so often made cruelty look clever. Some people will leave. But some people also become part of the light by which we find our way home. 2/2
August 25, 2026 at 8:08 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Hope is a strange animal.
It will crawl into the smallest spaces
and convince itself
there is room to live.
August 24, 2026 at 9:57 PM